


In Like a Lion, Out Like a . . .

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: L'amica geniale | The Neapolitan Novels - Elena Ferrante
Genre: Alternate Scene, Bathing/Washing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, First Time, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Pastiche, Pining Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: If it had been my choice to make, Lila would not be getting married today, not to Stefano, not to anyone. Maybe not ever. I told myself I was just being jealous of her good fortune and resented how it made my own meager academic accomplishments pale in comparison. In my heart of hearts, though, I knew it because Lila wasmyfriend,mine, and I didn’t want any competition for her attentions, didn’t want to lose her. If only she felt the same.





	In Like a Lion, Out Like a . . .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



March 12th arrived, a mild day that was almost like spring. Lila wanted me to come early to her old house, so that I could help her wash, do her hair, dress. She had sent her mother away, and we were alone. This was unexpected. Normally the bride’s family would assist with the necessary pre-wedding ablutions. I was secretly pleased to think that it meant I was closer, and meant more, to Lila.

She sat on the edge of the bed in underpants and bra. Next to her was the wedding dress, which looked like the body of a dead woman; in front of us, on the hexagonal-tiled floor, was the copper tub full of boiling water.

She asked me abruptly: “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

“How?”

“By getting married.”

I sucked in a breath. I didn’t want to answer. If it had been my choice to make, Lila would not be getting married today, not to Stefano, not to anyone. Maybe not ever. I told myself I was just being jealous of her good fortune and resented how it made my own meager academic accomplishments pale in comparison. In my heart of hearts, though, I knew it because Lila was _my_ friend, _mine_ , and I didn’t want any competition for her attentions, didn’t want to lose her. If only she felt the same.

She seemed not to notice my yearning silence. Her mind was already elsewhere. Staring at the water that sparkled in the tub, she said, “Whatever happens, you’ll go on studying. I’ll give you money, you should keep on studying.”

I gave a nervous laugh, then said, “Thanks, but at a certain point school is over.”

“Not for you: you’re my brilliant friend, you have to be the best of all, boys and girls.”

I was surprised she would say such a thing. Her interest in my studies had always seemed contingent, capricious. Yet now here she was, with a vision for my future that was more ambitious than my own, like she would have me placed on some glorious, laurel-leafed pedestal if she could. For not the first or last time, I wondered what she was truly thinking.

She didn’t deign to tell me. She merely got up, took off her underpants and bra, said, “Come on, help me, otherwise I’ll be late.”

I had never seen her naked, I was embarrassed. And she was always so fearless, so uncaring of the opinion of others, of course she thought nothing of undressing in front of me, a not impartial witness, revealing her sixteen-year-old’s beauty but a few hours before Stefano would touch her, penetrate her . . .

A riot of tumultuous sensations swept through my body and seemed to gather in my throat, choking off my speech, and lower, in my belly. It was pleasure, pleasure at the sight of her. I wanted to flee, and I wanted to stay forever this way, and I gazed up her childish shoulders, on her breasts and her buttocks, on her black sex, on her long legs, on her tender knees, on her curved ankles, on her elegant feet. I tried to act as if it were nothing when instead it was everything, everything, right there in that poor dim room, amid the worn furniture, on the uneven, water-stained floor. My heart was agitated, my veins inflamed.

I washed her with slow, careful gestures, first letting her squat in the tub, then asking her to stand up. My thoughts were hostile: I was washing her, from her hair to the soles of her feet, early in the morning, just so that Stefano could sully her in the course of the night. I imagined her naked as she was at that moment, entwined with her husband, his violent flesh entering her with a sharp blow, and suddenly it seemed to me that the only remedy against the pain I was feeling, that I would feel, was to kiss her.

Her lips were wet and warm from the bath, and they were slack against mine. Undeterred, I persisted, moving my mouth against hers and tangling my fingers in her wet hair.

“Lenù . . .” She said my name as she broke the kiss. She didn’t sound scandalized, as perhaps she should have, by my audacity. Instead, she sounded triumphant.

Before I could process the meanings implied by that tone of voice, Lila dove back in, and _she_ was kissing _me_. She stepped out of the tub, water streaming from her legs in rivulets, droplets clinging everywhere to her soft, smooth skin. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed in close, our chests together.

“Hey, you’re getting my dress wet!” I protested weakly.

“Then take it off,” Lila replied like it was the obvious solution. Her eyes were hard and dark, polished stones, and hungry. “Take it all off.”

I had no choice but to obey and allow myself to fall back onto the bed with Lila atop me, damp still, her wedding dress laid out beside us like the body of a dead woman. We were kissing, and I was stroking her sides, her hips, shuddering slightly as I felt the peaks of her nipples brush against mine. She fondled my breasts approvingly, squeezing the flesh like she liked how big they’d grown, and then her fingers slipped lower, to my sex. She wasn’t skilled, but I wanted her too badly for it to matter. Her finger grazed my clit, scratched it carelessly, and pushed inside of me. I shuddered, clenching around her and rocking into the heel of her hand, and came hard, lights exploding behind my eyes like the fireworks on New Year’s.

After that, I turned her over, her long limbs sprawling, and applied myself to her flesh. I pressed kisses to her collarbone, breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, and finally, to her dark, wet sex. I licked her, unafraid of the sharp, sour taste, and felt her swell and throb against my tongue. If Stefano had to have her, at least I would have her first. No one could take that away from me, and it would comfort me in the many lonely, miserable nights to follow. I kept going, relentless, until, gripping my shoulders and my hair, animal desperation almost enough to hurt, she tensed and cried out.

A short interval passed. I helped her compose herself. I also helped her dry off, dress, put on the wedding dress that I—I, I thought with a mixture of pride and suffering—had chosen for her. In spite of what we had shared, the agitation in my heart had not abated, and my feelings had only intensified. I’d tasted Lila, I’d had her ecstasy slick on my tongue, I wanted more.

She looked at herself in the mirror, lifting the dress slightly. Her reflected expression was drawn, pained, like the sight of the dress and the shoes she’d designed caused her suffering. “Never stop studying,” she said urgently. “Never stop.”

This again? “All right. I’ll never stop studying,” I said, humoring her.

“Good.”

There was silence between us again, and there was longing that built and built and built like a wave coming ashore.

She turned with a sudden expression of fear. “What’s going to happen to me, Lenù?”


End file.
